


Benedict Cooks Birthday Dinner

by Cumberknit



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Cooking, F/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumberknit/pseuds/Cumberknit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for Tumblr prompt: "I surely can't be the only one who is extremely aroused by the idea of Benedict cooking. I'm thinking shirt sleeves rolled up to expose the way his arm muscles work as he mashes potatoes, the concentration on his face as he stirs, his face flushed from steaming pans, and OVEN GLOVES. I don't know why, but the thought of him wearing oven gloves pleases me greatly. This has been a message. As you were."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benedict Cooks Birthday Dinner

I usually did the cooking, but since it was my birthday, Benedict had insisted that he would make dinner for us. “Please,” he’d said. “I want to.” He knew I could never resist him when he said ‘please,’ so I had let him go ahead with his plan. I expected something simple, like pasta, since he really didn’t know his way around the kitchen that well. So I was rather surprised to come home to find him surrounded by steaming pots, a stack of dirty bowls in the sink.

“Well, look at you!” I said, looking him over. His gorgeous curls were damp and swept up off his forehead. His face was flushed from the heat of the kitchen, and perspiration made his forehead shine. He had unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them to just above the elbows, and at least the first three buttons of his shirt were undone. He was wearing slim jeans that accentuated the slimness of his hips, and his feet were bare. He smiled at me as he realized I was giving him the once-over, but continued briskly stirring whatever was in the saucepan on the cook top. The muscles of his forearm stood out in the light from the range hood.

“Good evening, darling,” he said. “How was work?”

“Fine, fine,” I answered, placing my bag by the door and hanging up my coat. “Everyone took me out to lunch, otherwise business as usual. What’s for dinner?”

“A pork roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans almandine,” he announced with a flourish of his whisk.

“Wow,” I said, coming over to kiss his cheek. “You’ve gone all out.”

“Nothing is too good for my lady love,” he returned gallantly along with a kiss. “I’ll need another 20 minutes. You could open the wine.” He nodded towards the refrigerator. Two wineglasses sat on the counter beside it, along with the corkscrew.

“I’d be delighted.” I gave his shoulder a squeeze and went to the fridge. The pop of the cork startled Ben as he reached, without oven mitts, into the oven to check the roast. He burned his forearm on the edge of the oven door.

“Fuck!” he shook his arm and rushed to the sink. Cool water calmed the pain and he let me examine it. It wasn’t bad, but it was going to hurt for a while. He looked at me sorrowfully. “I wanted this to be just right. Now I’ve gone and ruined everything.”

“You haven’t ruined anything,” I assured him, and, still holding his injured arm, I kissed him. He sighed and pulled me closer. “All I ever want for my birthday is to spend it with you,” I murmured against his lips.

He smiled. “I still always like to do something special.”

“I know,” I said softly. “Come sit with me.” We headed into the living room, bringing our glasses of wine, which we set on the side table. I flopped onto the sofa and opened my arms to him. Instead, he knelt down and removed my shoes, then sat on the couch, pulling my feet into his lap. “Are these stockings, or do they go all the way up?” He made an answer unnecessary as he ran one hand up my leg to find the top of my thigh-high. He groaned. “You know I love it when you wear these.” I gave him a knowing smile. He reached up, with both hands now, and fumbled the garter clasps off the stockings. He faltered a little as my skirt grazed the burn on his arm. He rolled each stocking down slowly, carefully, looking me in the eye, an impudent little grin making him look rather rakish. I reached behind me and snagged a wineglass, taking a sip as if I wasn’t being undressed by a ginger-haired Adonis. I had found that lack of response often made Ben try harder.

My legs bare, Benedict turned to the business of massaging my feet, sore from standing in heels all day long. He knew exactly how to touch me so that it didn’t tickle, but rather felt relaxing and sensual. I placed my wineglass on the floor and let my head drop back on the cushions, reveling in the sensations. Ben slowly worked his way higher, massaging my calves, and when he reached my thighs, he lightened his touch, teasing and testing, nudging my legs open a bit as he went higher. Soon he was running a finger under the edge of my knickers, and I was writhing in his lap with my need. “Ben,” I moaned. “Touch me.”

“The birthday girl gets whatever she wants,” he replied, grinning. He hooked his fingers over the sides of my panties and slid them down and off. His fingers returned to their target, spreading me open, sliding a long, talented finger inside me, making me gasp. He kept my skirt down, which for some reason made me feel incredibly naughty. He leaned toward me, his right hand between my legs, alternately slipping two –no, three!-- fingers inside me, and rubbing my clit. His left hand was under my blouse, finding my right breast. He slipped his fingers into my bra, pushing the cup down, freeing me so that he could torture and tease my nipple between his fingers. “How’s that?” he teased.

“God, yes!” was all I could manage coherently, as I was about to come. He sped up the frenzied motion of his right hand, relentless. As I came, my scream of pleasure was joined by a piercing electronic wail. My orgasm ended; the noise did not. Ben and I looked at each other, startled, his hands still under my clothes, my legs spread wide.  
Sudden realization hit us both: “The smoke alarm!” we announced in unison. We leapt to our feet and ran for the kitchen, me barefoot and with clothing askew. We were greeted by the sight of smoke pouring out of the oven vents.

“You pull the battery out of the smoke detector,” I yelled over the din, “and I’ll get the roast out of the oven!” I turned off the oven and found the previously neglected oven mitts as Ben grabbed a kitchen chair in order to reach the detector on the ceiling. I hoped that Mrs. Dayton downstairs hadn’t already called the fire department. I didn’t want to have to explain how this happened.

As I pulled the blackened roast out of the oven, coughing at the smoke which billowed out at me, the screech of the alarm mercifully stopped. I turned, pan in hand, and looked at Benedict standing on the chair. He was ruefully regarding the ruined meat, shaking his head. “I wanted to do everything right tonight,” he said, “and I’ve royally fucked it up.”

I put the pan down on the cook top, dropped the oven mitts on the table, and went to him. He was still on the chair, so I was looking way, way up at him. I tugged at a belt loop of his jeans. “Benedict,” I cajoled, “come down.”

He climbed down off the chair, head hanging, looking for all the world like a sulky child who had to stay home from school, ill on the day of the field trip to the chocolate factory. I took the battery from his hand and placed it on the table, then took his chin with my hand. “Benedict, darling, you are my world,” I told him, catching his pale blue eyes with mine. “If I had to choose between a boyfriend who can make a tasty pork roast and one who can make me come screaming while still mostly dressed, which do you think I would choose?” I was working very hard, and probably failing, to keep a straight face. I watched as one corner of Benedict’s luscious mouth twitched once, twice, and then he dissolved into giggles, throwing his arms around me in a bear hug. His laughter subsided, then he leaned back, regarding me as he wiped tears from his eyes.

“What should we do now?” he asked. “It’s your birthday.”

“I’m sure we’ll never forget this birthday!” I smiled. “We’ll order in Chinese. And then…” I let my sentence trail off, a suggestive tone inviting him to finish it.

“And then, what?” he asked, turning and opening the drawer where we kept take-away menus. He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at me. I giggled.

“And then I’ll watch my famous, gorgeous actor-boyfriend clean the kitchen!”

He groaned, then reached for the phone.


End file.
